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My new landlord shifts his gaze from the mirror to me, and for once, he’s looking up to meet my gaze instead of the other way around. Somehow, I still feel small. He sits in my old vinyl chair like a king on a throne, all long limbs and broad shoulders. His big hands curl around the armrests, dark hair sprinkled over the slice of forearm I can see below his rolled-up shirt. Something hot slices through my middle at the sight of his forearm resting so near my stomach. I don’t know what the feeling is or why the sight of his stupid forearm affects me. I don’t like it.
“Something wrong?”
“I was just contemplating how easy it would be to slit your throat.” I give him a toothy smile.
Instead of laughing or looking horrified (which would have been my preferred reaction), Desmond just holds my gaze for a long moment, then settles into the chair, leans his head back to expose his throat, and closes his eyes. The absolute jerk.
Scowling at him, I waste another few seconds just staring at his serene face. Then I take a deep breath, pull his skin taut, and start moving the razor in short strokes with the grain, all the way down his cheeks. Desmond’s skin is warm beneath my fingertips, his jaw strong and square. This close, I can see each individual eyelash fanned over his cheeks, and I can smell nothing but the shaving cream and the heady scent of his skin.
Swallowing thickly, I take shallow breaths and ignore the beating of my heart. It’s anger—obviously. I hate that this man is here, inmyspace, reminding me that I’m completely at his mercy. I hate that my business is so precarious that one rent increase sends me into a panic spiral. I hate that I couldn’t kick him out of my barbershop the minute he stepped in. I hate that I have to shave him and pretend it doesn’t affect me.
When it’s over, Desmond inspects his jaw in the mirror and I busy myself washing my hands. I feel oddly humiliated, like he came here to lord his presence over me and there’s nothing I can do about it. He pays by card, and he gives me a hundred percent tip. That’s probably some sly message too.Look how generous I am, you worm.
Before he leaves, I finally find the courage to lift my chin and meet his gaze. His eyes are pools of inky blackness. He says nothing, just dips his chin and walks out the door.
Once he’s out of sight, I slump into a chair and groan. My life is a disaster.
Then my alarm rings: time to go pick up Bailey and Piper’s sons at summer camp.
I’ve been alternating pickups with Georgia and Piper, which has given me more time to keep the barbershop open to try to get a head start on October’s rent. Even those few hours a couple of days a week have made a big difference. It’s funny—until I had help, I hadn’t realized how difficult it was to juggle everything on my own.
But as I gather my purse and flip the sign on the door from “Open” to “Closed,” I worry that my budding friendships are too little, too late. Next time Desmond comes to the barbershop, it’ll be to break my poor little legs.
“Poor” being the operative word.
26
GEORGIA
One weekbefore Labor Day weekend, the painters finish up and I see the gallery space as my sister envisioned. She stands beside me, her back straight, chin held high, and meets my gaze.
A smile breaks over my face. “You’re a genius, Piper.”
She grins. “You said it.”
Without an army of laborers, electricians, plumbers, painters, and carpenters, I can see the gallery for what it is: bright, airy, and perfect. The windows on the second story let in shafts of light that diffuse through the space, bouncing off the white walls and pale hardwood floors. Piper convinced me to go with a light color scheme, with moveable partial walls that can be customized for any exhibit. We walk up the stairs together to see the mezzanine space, almost like its own gallery within a gallery.
For the opening, this space will be full of Mac’s pottery. Some of his more daring pieces aren’t exactly functional, but they are beautiful, and their intriguing shapes will look good, even from a distance.
Leaning my hands against the banister, I look down on my domain, and excitement wells up inside me. I’m not expecting to turn this into a multimillion-dollar business. I’m not even expecting to break even for the first year or two. But this is something new, something challenging. I can throw myself into the management of the gallery and see if I survive.
“I got another call from one of the artists that does portraits in town,” I say. “I think word’s got around that Cameron Fuller is participating.”
“Those pretentious jerks who weren’t returning your calls are knocking down your door now?” Piper doesn’t sound impressed.
I grin. My little sister is not someone I’d want as an enemy. I turn to give her a hug. “Thank you, Piper,” I whisper.
“Thankyou, Georgia,” she says gently. “I never would have applied to the job in Colorado if I hadn’t had the confidence boost from this project.”
“And I wouldn’t have been able to get this gallery up and running so quickly without you at the helm.”
Her eyes crinkle, and I see a flash of the old Piper. The little sister who was stubborn and strong and never backed down. “We make a good team,” she says.
The door crashes open, and Nate and Alec come stomping in with Mia’s daughter. “Kids!” Mia calls out as she enters. Her daughter is dressed in corduroy overalls, a white tee, and a backwards baseball cap like the cutest, most rugged little tomboy I’ve ever seen. She chases after Nate and Alec, grinning from ear to ear, and the three of them laugh and sprint through the open room.
“We could skateboard in here!” Nate says.
“YES!” Bailey says, throwing her fist in the air.
